


Reflections of a Vor Whore

by Zoya1416



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Actually some plot wandered in, But also about what my character thinks, It Wasn't All Bad, M/M, Male Prostitution, PWP, Porn, first person POV, very explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8845234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: My life as a man-whore, or how I survived the sex trade in Vorbarr Sultana.





	

It was the Count who suggested I say survived the sex trade. When we were young, it wasn't a trade. They called us man-whores, or pole-lickers, or just plain cunts. We called ourselves the Vor Whores, which could just mean the whores for Vors, but also—I was a Vor, by blood, anyway, a bastard grandson of one.

Anyway, the Count has supported us—me and my friends, there were five of us—ever since he saw me being kicked in an alley in the caravanserai. Even though I'd just pleased someone, he suddenly realized that I was a man, not a woman, and—well, I'd have died if the Count hadn't rescued me. He wasn't the Count then for...several reasons. You might say it seemed impossible, but...it's been an amazing journey for him. 

Apparently he'd come to protect his friend, (he said, although he admitted he'd enjoyed the show, too. Which seemed odd to me at the time, because I never thought—anyway.) He and his friend weren't big fighters—he's never been a military man for...several reasons, and he's not very tall. There were three attackers. But the Count and his friend were fast. They had stunners, but the bolts went wide, and then they had to go to their fancy canes, which turned out to be very hard wood. The other men ran away after a few bruises.

After he rescued me, he insisted on helping me walk back to our room. He looked at me, and then the rest of us. We had a lot of bruises then, and sore mouths. He made me go get the Master. They yelled and screamed, and we listened at the door. 

“So you're going to teach me my business, my Lord? You think you can run whores better than I can?”

“I don't want to run your whores! I want you to take better care of those you've got!”

“What—these five? I could put them out and find five more tomorrow.”

“Possibly but—” and we could tell the Count was thinking. His friend whispered something to him and he said, “Then you'd have to give up the training you've put into these—that would cost you money.” 

“It's none of your business, so fuck off! You've never come around here before—why now?”

“...I...recognized the Horse's accent—he came out of my District and so did the others.”

I found out later that wasn't the only thing he recognized. But he'd have helped us, anyway, seeing what we looked like, even if...well.

“And do you know how many whores, men and women, there are in Vorbarr Sultana who came out of your District? Well?”

There was a pause. Then he said quietly, “I know I can't take care of everyone, although by God if I ever became Count—anyway, I want to help these. I don't want to take them away. Just for God's sake—”

“I'll be happy to take your money—you can be sure I'll use it well.”

The Count laughed. “No, but I'll be back tomorrow.”

He did come back, and he brought some meat, and also some fruit—you don't think you'll miss fruit, when you've helped harvest, and got stuck by a thousand thorns—but these were big round oranges.

After that the Count fussed with us to always take a bit of money to the market for cabbages, not spend it all on beer and vodka and opium. He's a very persisting person, the Count.

He's been our protector—never our Master, just the one we could come talk to. He insisted we get medical exams, and treatment for sores, eat better to be stronger and healthier. We started fishing when we had time. Whores, fishing, you ask? In our District you could bait hooks before you were three. We only caught little fish, but it helped. I told him once he was like a mother hen, and he laughed at me. Never wanted to be a mother, he said. He can't, although at one time...not important.

Anyway, it's not about him, it's about being a man-whore, and it wasn't all bad. This isn't for the sob stuff.  


There were five of us who came out of the same district when we were young. I'm not saying how young. But we were tired of working as farm hands, and one night we were out drinking—clinging together so we wouldn't get picked up, and we saw another boy being threatened. He got pushed down, and they started to kick him. So we rushed in and pushed away the attackers. The boy stood up, lip trickling blood, and I could see he was a man, older than us, but thinner and shorter—he held himself still, then stuck out his hip. He was the first man-whore we'd ever seen.

“Well, do I get to trade five for two? I tell you, I charge more if someone wants to watch. And no group rates.”

We'd come in from the farms, and looked like it. But I said, “No, it's not like that—we—came to see what it was like. If we wanted to.”

He looked down his nose at us, even though he was shorter. “What it's like to have sex? I charge more for virgins.”

One of my friends said—he was a small pretty boy and had been—well, his family had—they were going to sell him, and he found out—so he was the one desperate enough to come to town and to get us to come too.

“No. We wanted to do what you do—but we want to protect each other.”

The man-whore stared at us, and then he laughed. “Come buy me a drink, and we'll talk.”

He went to a bar where he said it was safe. (It was safe because he danced there and let them take half his money, when he used one of their rooms.) It wasn't as dirty as the bar we'd been in, and he said, “They'll pay more for men, so the owner can afford to keep it cleaner.” She even had pitchers of water in the rooms.

After a drink—they had really bad beer, but you could chase it with vodka so strong you didn't think about how the beer tasted. He said, “Okay, farm boys, why should I tell you how to fuck men? You'll steal my johns.”

One of us—good looking and strong—said,“We don't want to stay here in this piss-bucket. We want to go to Vorbarr Sultana, and if we all go—we can protect each other. If you could—help us—we'd go away from here.”

The man-whore studied us. “You are all together? How did that happen?”

“Not important,” I said, before anyone else could. We'd been together since very young and we'd all found out we liked to suck cock or pull each other off, or get fucked, or anything else boys like to do. So, that was us, but not his business.

He made a face. “First, you all look like ignorant farm boys. Farm boys aren't bad, but you need to know how to strip off those bib-overalls the right way. Also, you need names.”

The strong one said, “I'm Lev, Lev the Revver.” I thought that was smart.

“That's the spirit. I'm the Master. You call me that, or I won't help.” None of us left. He rolled his head on one side to think.

One of us was very tall, and not handsome, but the man-whore—the Master—said, “Stand up straight, darling, and you can wear any dress. Call yourself the Empress.” One of us rushed in—he was cute but not terribly smart—and said, “I have a lot of moxie, call me that.”

“Do you even know what moxie is, friend?” The Master was getting drunk, and he laughed. “It's like sassy charisma, which you don't have either. Call yourself Roxie, and I'll help you.”

Next, my pretty little friend said, “They call me Pansy,” and so he became. I—didn't want a name like that. I was a man, I liked to have sex with men, and wanted to see if I could get paid for it. I said, “I'm Eugin. Have been, will be.”

The Master looked at me. I had the most muscle, and some scars on my arms from wrapping bales of hay, plus—well, we all had rough hands in those days. “Maybe—why don't you call yourself the Horse.”

“Not the Stallion?”

“No, because the Stallion suggests something purebred, fancier. If you don't want to be a Horse—hmm.”

Roxie said, snickering, “You could call him the Horse for other reasons.” My so-called friends laughed, and I actually blushed. It was okay for them—well, all right, I was proud of it, but telling a stranger...

The Master raised one eyebrow and looked at my trousers. “Really? You hang long, do you? You are definitely the Horse.”

I was going to kill Roxie, but after all, he'd wanted to be Moxie and got turned down.

So we went to Vorbarr Sultana, and the Master went with us, and he taught us how to whore.

I didn't know that when you learn how to whore, you learn how to strip first, but the Master showed us. He danced in soft pants and a shirt with sparkles. The shirt was very long and covered his ass. He pulled off the pants first, slowly. We found out that they were only held on by two very loose stitches. Then he took off his shirt, very slowly.

When he pulled the shirt all the way off he was wearing the tiniest underpants I'd ever seen. They were just a little pouch for his balls and cock, and he wore several of them so he could pull off one at a time. It was—better than seeing a guy all the way naked. The little slings went around his hips with a little belt, and then had just a piece of cloth in his crack, and he could twitch his ass in a way I'd never imagined. I think we all got turned on.

So he taught us how to strip, and then—there was always the last moment when you turned away from the stage, undid the strap of the last little sling—turned around—

It was a rush, a real rush, to have men look at you when you were bare. Knowing that they'd paid for you, and you'd do what they told you. You were a whore and that's who you wanted to be.

It could be anything, from just blowing them to—well.

The Count says I don't have to say exactly what happened, but I want to. I wasn't ashamed of what I did.

Fucking me was what they wanted most, of course. Sometimes alone, but—sometimes men wanted to watch other men... it surprised me how much I liked it when I was in a room being watched and I was bent over a couch.

I'm not going to lie. Part of the time there was a little fear, but also I was excited. They would start in, a few at a time—I never knew how many—

Well. It would be quite a few. I still can't make him understand how it feels to be able to do such a tough job. I was a man-whore, and a good one.

I loved it all. I was young and good at what I was doing, and I had a beautiful body that men wanted. You might think, this is a terrible thing to be proud of, how could you, but we'd come here to Vorbarr Sultana to let other men watch us, touch us, fuck us, have us blow them—and we were living the dream.

The Count likes to think he rescued us, and he did help three of us leave. Me, Lev, Pansy.

It went like this—we'd been whoring ten years and were old, almost thirty. Even before that the Empress was dead. The Master had him seeing men who wanted to see men in dresses, and he started acting like he was better than us. After a few years, the Master got rid of him. The Empress went back to the street, and it turned out very bad. He hung himself.

Roxie—he didn't want to leave. Partly because he's on opium all the time now, and needs the money. The Count would help him, but he doesn't want help.

But the three of us—if you're thirty, you're too old. The Count had helped us save some money, and we decided to buy a shop. I was going to buy anything as long as it was away from the caravanserai, and I saw a flower shop was for sale. Well, we grew flowers in the District as well as fruit and vegetables, and Lev and Pansy went to talk to the growers. 

Lev knew how to bargain, and Pansy knew how to yell. He'd grown up to be a big man after all. Between them, they got good blooms—he'd shout that he'd never buy from them again if they sent weeds.

So we set it up, and we quit whoring, and tried to save Roxie.

The Count likes to think it was all bad. The first time he ever saw me, after he talked to the Master, he pulled me outside. 

"I know who you are."

"Who I am?

"You--look like him--like us--it's the eyelashes, those fucking eyelashes, and I know what he does. I can get you out of this. Please let me get you out of this."

I just stared at him. "You know-who?" 

"Your-he has to be your grandfather, and-he's, he's-related to me, and so you are too, and I-can't save everyone, but please, please..." 

"My Lord. What would I do then? I worked on a farm, that and whoring is all I know how to do. And there's a lot better money in whoring." 

He kept trying over the years, especially after he became Count Vorrutyer. He hated the way legitimate Vor children got fancy schools and their own ponies, but us bastards got nothing. It wasn't anything I could change, and I was fine whoring, most of the time. I had my friends, and we got out when it was time.

He wouldn't believe me if I said—I miss it. Part, anyway, and it's not just the money. Flowers don't bring in as much as whoring.

For one thing—the stripping—it got to be routine, but always at that last moment, just before I was completely bare—it was a thrill because—anything could happen after that.

Another thing I was good at, and the Master started bringing me all the time-- an old man's friends would bring him a stripper, for say, his retirement party. Or for his seventieth birthday. A time when he was so old no one thought he could get it up anymore, so here was this surprise stripper and he couldn't do anything. If he was powerful, or had been, he would look at me with lust and contempt, and I would simply do what I had been asked to do.

But sometimes we could tell that the man had been very private—his friends wanted to embarrass him.

When I was sent to such a man, I stripped to the last sling and when the other men left, hooting and calling at him—

Then the Master would come in. I would go down on one knee, look up at the old one, put my hands on his cheeks and say, “Do you want me? For anything you want. Anything at all. You can open your pants and I will make love to your cock—with my mouth, or my hand, anything you want. If you don't want my mouth or my hand, you can bend me over the chair. I'll help hold you up. If you need them, there are some salves, I can rub them on you to get you hard, you'll like that. Do you want me?”

Most of them did want me, a beautiful young man, when he thought that was gone for ever. I loved this very much, of all the things I did. An old man, seventy, eighty, or more, to give him some pleasures for his memory. If there was a couch or bed nearby, I would lie down with him. Some of them even wanted to blow me, wanted to close his eyes and feel another man's cock in his mouth, reliving who knew what memories.

There was no time I had to leave. I would be here as long as he wanted, all night even. Even if he couldn't do anything, I could still kiss him. He was the master of me at that moment, for absolutely as long as he wanted to have me. He was in control of a beautiful young body for the first time in years, and for those moments, I was all his and only his. His. His.


End file.
